don't forget to miss me
by marniemadden
Summary: they're talking, they're talking about her and her stupid face, and her stupid violin, and her stupid personality / lily, oneshot


A/N: This was written for the _Speed of Lightning_ Competition by Shira Lansys. Harry Potter © JK Rowling.

**don't forget to miss me  
><strong>lily ii ; angst

* * *

><p>She had never been normal. As a child, she would stay away from her cousins – she learnt to love them, but until her Hogwarts days, Lily would only be found next to the Scamanders. In her teenage years, she became close to Dominique and Molly, with whom she shared a rebellious streak; but in adulthood, she'd completely estranged herself from everybody she used to know and love.<p>

Ginny was worried. Harry understood his daughter (he was _very_ used to angst), but became increasingly anxious about her welfare. His mood swings had only been mild compared to cases he'd heard about – although they'd felt hellish at the time – and he stayed awake worrying that Lily's were worse than his had been. What if as he thought, doing nothing for her, she was committing suicide? Committing murder? Making awful decisions?

After about three weeks, they couldn't bear it any more. Taking Lily, they visited a psychiatrist.

He said it might have been caused by childhood problems; bad teenage problems; or just delayed hormonal changes. Whatever the reason, it was definitely acute depression.

**;**

Ginny wanted someone with her at all times, but the psychiatrist and Harry agreed that she needed to be alone. There was a 1% chance Lily would take action. That just meant in one out of a hundred nights, she'd kill herself (to Ginny, anyway).

"You can't stifle the girl," he said, after Lily had gone to the toilet. Ginny wiped the tears away and hoped he was right.

**;**

Lily was wasted. Not just flat-out hammered, although she was that, but potential-wise. Nobody could deny she was talented. That girl could spin out a tune on her violin after hearing it once in her whole life.

But now? Nobody was even sure if she _owned_ a violin any more, let alone played. (She did, every day, but the melodies were so melancholy, it almost would've been brighter if she didn't.)

Her amazing flat, paid for by her generous parents, was worth a fraction of its original price. She'd painted every room black one particularly bad Saturday, after a break up, when she was still hungover. Another day, she'd boarded up the windows. It wasn't the money they'd lost that worried Lily's parents, it was the state of their daughter.

She could've been a model, too, with her looks. Taking after her mother, she had hair like fire, burnt sienna eyes and a slender, petite figure. But no agent wanted a girl with a deathly hallows tattoo on the back of her neck (not even to mention the barcode on her wrist). The symbolism of that wasn't worth any beauty.

And as for love, since Teddy and Victoire's wedding, Lily hadn't spoken to Teddy or really, any male at all. Well, to flirt. She was playing angry, but Harry knew that the problem lay deeper than a little jealousy.

**;**

Lily woke up late, but what did it matter, anyway? She had nowhere to go. No job, no friends.

She didn't shower, but it wasn't as if she was seeing anyone. The same process went towards brushing her hair and teeth.

She needed cigarettes, aspirin and coffee (the only substances she lived on – who needed food?), but the corner shop's owner knew her well and already thought she was a bit nutty, so why bother changing out of her pyjama shirt and lacy underwear?

The flat was a tip, but Lily barely noticed. Somewhere in the piles of expensive, unworn clothes bought for her birthday and Christmas were a couple of ashtrays, but she had long since given up searching for them, and didn't care where her ash went. It was her flat, anyway.

Today was a strange day. Every so often, Lily felt the urge to do something spontaneous and fun. It was one of those days. She really wanted to get ready for an imaginary party, so why not?

In Lily's head, this party was a black-tie do. She proceeded into her rarely used bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Dust flew out, hovering in the air, mingling with other particles of dust and dirt, shimmering in the sunlight (this was the only room of the flat whose windows Lily hadn't yet boarded up).

She selected her fanciest dress: low-cut, navy blue, with a flowing skirt to her toes. _Spritz_. Chanel perfume. _Clatter_. Alexander McQueen necklace. _Clack_. Louboutin heels.

Lily slicked on red lipstick; patted on ivory powder; delicately painted on liquid eyeliner, and carefully lined the rims of her eyes with kohl.

The whole process took a long time to carry out, and Lily was (unusually) happy throughout. However, as soon as she was done, reality hit home – and hard.

There was no party. She didn't need to do this. She looked awful, anyway. Nobody would invite her to a party. Probably, all the other cousins were having a party without her, right now. They were laughing at her; talking about her and her stupid face and stupid violin and stupid personality.

They were talking and talking, and IT WAS ALL GETTING TOO MUCH FOR HER.

**;**

It was Ginny who found her. She'd finally cracked. Whatever the psychiatrist said, Lily wasn't all right and she needed to be supervised at all times.

The note read: "Don't forget to miss me."

There was blood on the dress, the same colour as the lipstick, and a box of aspirin lay empty next to the body, drained of all colour and looking ridiculously made-up, like some sick clown.


End file.
